I would have thought my thick ankles would be good for something. I might even have bet that they grew to better carry this increasingly thick body of mine. Maybe I'm nuts. But I think ankles should be reliable things.
Apparently they are not.
Yesterday I was carrying Claire into Church. She rested on my hip. I was feeling slightly uneasy in my high heels, which I unwisely wore for vanity's sake since I had uncharacteristically been to the salon with my mother to have my toes painted. They had flowers on them. For the first time. It should have been a momentous occasion. It was not. My ankles did not approve.
The left one punished me. It buckled attempting to bolster the burden of two children and a fat lady, aided only by those stupid wedges.
I had just enough time to pull Claire closer to me (butting her head to mine, but saving her from the pavement), and shout, "Oh my gosh! Brad!"
Brad rushed over. Along with a friend I hadn't seen in a year whose reintroduction to me was an awkward mixture of me wincing and laughing. (I do that when I'm embarrassed.)
I had skinned my knee. I limped into the chapel. And now my rolled ankle is even more swollen. Which, I'm sure many of you doubted possible. Yes. Well. Doubt no more. I can always become more ridiculous, I assure you.
(P.S. Brad has just revealed to me that when he ran around the car to rescue me, he found me sprawled out on the pavement, spread eagle, my skirt flipped up. All the way up. Claire was laying on top of me, flailing and screaming. Always more ridiculous. Always.)